And They All Lived Happily Ever After
by Pigeon Voyageur
Summary: Or not. In which Eomer heroically tries to separate his sister from the suspiciously sincere Steward, while his sword - no innuendos intended - is purloined by a sly but fair maiden. FaramirxEowyn, EomerxLothiriel. Disclaimer: all material is Tolkien's!
1. Chapter 1

It was the fifth banquet in one week and quite likely the reason why the Rohirrim had not yet left for their homeland, though their hosts were beginning to drop growingly obvious hints about their welcome drawing to an end. Oh, not King Elessar - _his_ hospitality, it seemed, knew no end - but the inhabitants of the White City in general were growing weary of their guests, with their resonating laughter and loud attitude. Really, it was all very well for them to have come and saved Minas Tirith from certain doom, but a visit is a visit and, as Eomer King had said, it was time for them to go.

One Gondorian not to share this opinion, though, was the young Steward, who was seated at the King's right-hand side and distractedly fingering his goblet, his eyes watching one of the foreigners sitting a distance away from him - the Lady Éowyn, who was currently leading a heated discussion with one of the local stable boys about the care of horses' coats. He was just thinking to himself how endearingly pink her cheeks became when angered when his rêverie was brutally interrupted by the sight of the man beside her: the King of Rohan, her brother. The look on his face was so full of rage that Faramir found himself hurriedly breaking the eye contact and staring at his plate studiously, feeling both embarrassed and guilty. Eomer had been an intimidating enough man even before he had discovered of the attachment which existed between his sister and the Steward. Faramir quickly turned his attention towards Elessar and the conversation he was having with the cheerful hobbit to his left – Samwise, was it not?

During the remainder of the evening, he was very careful to not do so much as glance in Éowyn's direction, though he sorely wished he could. At times he would furtively assess Eomer King's mood, but it remained sour throughout the meal. Faramir cursed himself for having been so indiscreet in his admiration for the Lady of Rohan, for as a consequence it appeared that matters in the battle which was obtaining Eomer's blessing had taken a turn for the worse.

As the feast drew to an end, and the King of Rohan had retired after muttering something in his sister's ear, probably 'Hurry up, it's bedtime now', or 'Stay away from that Steward, he's a reputed murderer' (or something to that effect, Faramir was certain), he himself took leave of King Elessar and made to go.

A hand clasped firmly on his shoulder just as he walked through the archway stopped him.

"You ignored me all meal," came a familiar yet still delightful voice, heavy with reproach. He turned to face Éowyn, who wore an expression nearly as fearsome as her brother's previous one.

"I did not wish to do so, but I feared discretion was necessary," he replied coolly. His beloved was spirited and loud, an exemplary Shieldmaiden of Rohan, and thus caution was not an prominent part of her personality when dealing with other human beings. One of her favourite activities, a habit which she had adopted while residing in Gondor, was to exchange meaningful looks with Faramir whenever eye contact was possible but speech not so. He himself enjoyed the game, but it would have proved disastrous if played during _that_ banquet, with Eomer watching them like a hawk.

"Oh? And since when is the Steward of Gondor careful of discretion?" What? He had always been discreet! He was the quiet, pensive one– _Boromir_ had been the rasher of the two of them, but _he_ was ever careful! ... Was he not? Anyhow, the comment ruffled his pride.

"I always have been! But – that is not the point. My lady, I felt the particular need for vigilance tonight, as your brother, the King of Rohan, did not seem thrilled to find my gaze fixed upon you."

As Éowyn came to understand what the situation had been, she slowly nodded and formed an O with her mouth.

"Indeed. Hm. Well, it does not matter. He has always been overprotective of me, though never to the point of actual usefulness. I shall speak to him." She grinned ruefully. "And then we shall have visual discussions whenever we please."

Eomer decided that the situation he currently found himself in did not fall into the category of 'speaking' with his sister, although that had been her request. He was not certain what it was exactly, but it involved angry words and sharp objects being flung at him, and he found himself resisting the urge to flee the scene. Anyway, turning his back on Éowyn and her projectiles was not a concept which went hand in hand with survival.

"You selfish bastard!" she screeched, abandoning her previous tactic to pummel at his chest with her surprisingly painful fists. Eomer seized her wrists firmly, not wishing to hurt her but also following automatic self-preservation instincts, effectively holding her more still than she had been all morning.

"Éowyn! Please, calm down. I only want to have a rational discussion with you."

"And I only want for you to leave me and Faramir alone!" she retorted angrily. He sighed, keeping his own temper at bay, though it was being continuously provoked.

"What is it about the Steward, Éowyn? For goodness' sake, why does everything have to come back down to him?"

"Because you will not consent to our marriage!" she hissed. Disgusted, Eomer released her from his grasp and began to pace a distance away from her.

"Why are you so bent on making this difficult for me?"

"You are the only party making anything difficult." After several moments' thought, Eomer looked up, his face set as his mind was.

"You belong with your people."

"I knew you would say that."

"If you knew it, then why ever did you accept Faramir in the first place?"

"Because I love him!"

The words hung in the air, raw and desperate, the last stand of what had been a fierce tirade. They stung Eomer, for he could hear the sincerity in them, and somehow the manner in which her voice broke over the last syllable filled him with guilt. But he reasoned that, even though she had cast him as the villain, what he was enforcing was for her own good. Therefore when he spoke again, it was sternly, and authoritarian.

"If you will not accept the advice of a brother, then obey the orders of your King. You may not remain in Gondor. You will return with us to Edoras when we go."

And with that, he left the chamber.

Éowyn did not believe she had ever been so deliberately spiteful in her relatively short life. As begging Faramir to act rashly had come to no avail - though she personally believed that a clandestine marriage was both ingenious and thrilling - she had set about to render Eomer's life as difficult as possible. She actually found it an entertaining way of taking revenge, for one could visibly notice the effect her attitude had on him; while all of Minas Tirith, both Rohirrim eager to return of home, and Gondorians glad to be rid of their guests, was in high spirits, Eomer remained sour.

However her attempts to irritate her brother into approval proved fruitless, and she found herself seated in Faramir's study the evening before her departure, painfully disappointed. The Steward was sorting through papers, while in her mind she mulled over her tedious everyday life in Rohan.

"Éowyn." She glanced up. She had not noticed that he had stopped turning pages and that his eyes were now riveted upon her.

"I shall... be very sorry to watch you go, tomorrow," he said, wearing an expression she found attractively pained - he was distraught that she should leave, and the attention made her feel wanted - yet frustratingly resigned.

"Perhaps I will not," she replied. He laughed half-heartedly.

"I am certain that your brother will personally search the entire city if you do not show in the morn'," he said.

"He shall have to drag me the whole way to Edoras."

"That would be a waste of everyone's time..."

"You do not want to marry me," she accused sulkily, annoyed by his surrender.

"What? No! Of course I do! Éowyn, where are you getting such ideas?" replied Faramir, quite shaken by her statement.

"Well, you seem content enough for me to go away!" She rose to her feet, the frustration and anger which had been building up within her over the past weeks spilling out. She did not want to take it out on him, but she felt so helpless, so oppressed - she could not help it.

"I just told you I am sorry that is the case!"

"But not enough to actually do something about it! You will wave me farewell and be sad for a day and then move on and find another bride, and I will be too far away to do anything!"

"For goodness' sake, Éowyn, do not say that." She was surprised to feel his lips crash against hers, and effectively chose to obey his order to stop speaking. Determined never to let go of him, she locked her arms around his shoulders and deepened the kiss, but all too soon he broke the spell and pulled away, leaving her starving for more. He gazed into her eyes, and she unexpectedly found tears in his own. Guilt stabbed at her heart for having made such dramatic accusations about him.

"Éowyn, I will wed none but you. And if that means never marrying, then so be it; but I will have you know that I have every intention of making you my bride. You may not like it, but time will be of the best use to us in this predicament."

She nodded slowly, feeling her own eyes grow heavy with tears she did not want to fall. She was going to leave the next day, she could no longer deny it, but along with the acceptance of her fate came the desperation of parting with Faramir, which until then she had suppressed with futile hope.

"I will miss you," she said quietly. Her actions had been rash, immature, foolish, and there all along Faramir had had it right. She felt as she had during their first encounter, inexperienced and silly beside his wisdom.

"As I will you. Write to me when you arrive in Edoras, will you?" "I doubt my brother will be pleased for me to keep contact with you..."

"Well, then, you shall have to be very discreet about it, because if I do not receive any news from you I shall be very much obliged to ride out myself to confirm that you are well." At this Éowyn grinned, for she quite enjoyed the idea of him travelling all the way to Edoras to set his fears about her at rest.

"Expect very long and tedious letters from me, in that case," she answered playfully.

"No word written by you could ever be tedious, I assure you." She rolled her eyes at his disastrously romantic comment and reached up to resume their kiss, which she had felt unfairly cheated out of. Faramir consented most willingly. By the time they detached themselves from each other, the hallways were empty and all of the City (excepting the night watch, naturally) slumbered.


	2. Chapter 2

Upon joining the Riders in the First Circle of Minas Tirith, Éomer was thoroughly relieved to perceive his sister's smaller shape among the men. He approached her, aware he would be greeted with nothing but hostility, but determined to break the ice which had frozen over between them. "You have very little baggage with you," he commented.

"Lucky steed."

Éowyn glanced up at him.

"Well, I did not expect to return."

Éomer was surprised to find that despite the neutrality and disinterest expressed in her tone, she no longer appeared to be sulking.

"Fortunately, you will be returning," he said. Only after he had spoken did he realize how she might understand him – he had intended to show happiness at her recovery, but it sounded as though he found joy in removing her from Gondor.

"Fortunately indeed," she answered levelly, swinging up onto her horse in a casual manner which would have become Dernhelm, but looked appallingly inappropriate on a Lady of Rohan. She could not care less, and although she had come to terms with her brother's decision, she took pleasure in noting the uneasiness this action caused him.

In truth, she was anxious. Faramir had not yet come to bid the party farewell, and she feared he might miss them. Éomer was eager to leave and so were the Riders; she seemed to be the only of the group desiring to stay. However she comforted herself with the thought that King Elessar had not yet revealed himself either, and they would have to wait for him before their departure.

Éomer was busy preparing his ride and worrying over his sister, when someone behind him coughed a small, polite cough. He turned, and recognized one of the women from the Houses of Healing – a relation of some kind to the Steward, he recalled scornfully.

"My lord, you forgot your sword behind... You've got the sheath, but the blade is missing, you left it in your chambers..." she said, in a manner both well-spoken and awkward. She held the sword out to him, though in so inexperienced a fashion he thought he might laugh; she apparently expected him to grasp it by the blade.

Another thought occurred to Éomer – the more effort he made to remember his preparations, the more certain he grew that he had taken the sword with him. And weapons did not remove themselves from their sheaths by their own free will.

"Why, thank you," he said, accepting the blade. Now that he was face to face with the girl, he recognized the family resemblance between her and Faramir, though he silently remarked that she wore the features better than her relation. "But who do I thank?"

"Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, my lord."

"That's quite a name," he grinned. "But I am very fortunate indeed, for without Lothíriel of Dol Amroth, I should be without my sword." The confident manner in which she dismissed his gratitude spoke of some deliberate intervention on her part, but instead of feeling anger at having been so fooled by a young Gondorian maid, Éomer found her oddity quite amusing.

"It does not truly matter," she said. "I am certain they could have forged you a new sword, the smiths in Rohan. I hear they are very skilled and produce objects near as fine as those of the Elves or the Dwarves."

"Near as fine? Goodness! That is no way to flatter a King, now, is it?"

"Pfft. I can count the weeks you have been king on my fingers!" Again, the insolent words merely stole a smile from Éomer's lips.

"You certainly know how to make people feel inferior," he laughed. "I suppose that is very easy for Lothíriel of Dol Amroth." He emphasized the grandeur of her name teasingly, and she turned a furious pink. "Begging your pardon, sire," she stammered, red to the roots of her dark hair.

"I only meant to leave you with a witty reminder of Gondor."

"And a very beautiful reminder at that, too," added Éomer, but before Lothíriel could undertake blushing further – the possibility of which he doubted – a fanfare sounded and the High King of Gondor, still known by close companions as Lord Aragorn, appeared, walking down towards the Riders with his Steward at his side.

"King Elessar!" cried Éomer warmly, striding forth to greet his host.

As the party finally made to go, for the two kings were exchanging a few last words, Faramir approached Éowyn to bid her farewell.

"My lady," he addressed her.

"You know, I have been thinking. I believe I shall run away from Edoras and return to you very soon," she said, grinning. He laughed, relieved by the jest in her tone – any serious consideration of attempting such an elopement would no doubt result in failure and remorse. And possibly his own death, at the hands of her brother.

"I shall be waiting for you," he replied.

"Good." She paused. "Farewell, Faramir."

"Good-bye," he smiled. "We shall meet again soon, I am certain. Until then, my lady."

"Until then," she nodded.

Éomer rode to the front of the group, and after a moment's pause to check all was ready, the City gates were swung open and the Rohirrim spurred their rides forward. As they left Minas Tirith, Éomer's thoughts were no longer turned towards the feat of settling into his throne in Rohan, or the quandary which was Éowyn's infatuation with the Lord Faramir. He was beginning to deem the idea of returning to Gondor tolerable, for there was one face he suddenly wished he did not have to leave behind. _Lothíriel, the girl who stole my sword, _he thought, already finding it difficult to remember her fair features exactly as the fields of Pelennor rolled by him and his kinsmen.

Returning to Edoras was not as distressing as Éowyn had feared; though the latter years she had spent there had been grim indeed, it was her home, and in her determination to stay at Faramir's side she had not realized how sorely she missed the halls of Meduseld, where she had played with Theodred and Éomer as children, and learned to ride – in fact, she could not recall her life prior to Edoras. At least in the company of her own people, with their cheerful faces reddened by the cold winter winds and their fair hair turned golden by the summer sun, she could act as she wished; they loved her, she was their Shieldmaiden. The Rohirrim did not judge her... Memories of the Gondorian women resurfaced, those of hostile eyebrows raised at the mud on her petticoat, or chuckles at her mispronunciation of certain words.

She shook her head at the negative recollections; no silly old matron could threaten her love for Faramir. Nevertheless, she could hardly admit to preferring Minas Tirith over her homeland.

But if she was gladly rid of the city, the Steward remained ever present in her thoughts. She wrote to him daily, careful to leave this activity unbeknownst by Éomer, and delighted in receiving answers, though they were often a couple of days old due to the distance to cross. She told him of her daily activities and the rebuilding of the Mark, and he wrote of his own novel duties as Prince of Ithilien. Through the letters, Éowyn found the trial of being parted from Faramir bearable.

As for the King himself, he was finding the throne more comfortable than he had expected; his new responsibilities kept him occupied but not exhausted. The Rohirrim were eager to rebuild the Westfold and repair the damage inflicted by Isengard, and their cooperation meant that the tasks were accomplishable. His power was not challenged, and his person respected... In truth he could not have asked for a better beginning to his reign.

His anxieties did not leave him, however, and he kept a careful eye on Éowyn. The guilt of not having been there for her during the end of Theoden's reign was still raw – the thought that she might have perished on the battlefield, unrecognised and abandoned, nagged at his conscience day and night. The worst part of it was that she had sought this death, purposefully rode out to war hoping not to return, and he had not helped her. She claimed... She claimed that the Steward had. But he rejected the thought that _he_, the son of a foreign lord, a mere Ranger of the South, had triumphed where Éomer himself had failed, that he had saved her when her own brother had not.

What Éowyn was experiencing was simply infatuation for the exotic and unknown – for all his calm and wisdom, Faramir was unlike all men she had met in her young life, and therefore exciting in the way novel discoveries are. He convinced himself that he had been right to separate them, before one of the two lovers grew weary and hearts were broken. Anyway, he doubted the sincerity and good intentions of this Steward: he had seen the way he looked at his sister. Éomer knew such desire all too well; and seeing it in the eyes of another man, caused by _his_ Éowyn! it had been all he could do to not skewer him through with his sword.

Yes, he decided, It had been a wise choice to remove his sister from the Steward of Gondor. Even so, he watched her mood carefully. He did not doubt that she was still of a different mind to his when it came to his decision, being hot of temper and strong of heart; ever he feared a relapse in her recovery, a sudden frown, a miserable glance, anything which might hint at that which King Elessar had described as a 'frost'. Fortunately, though weeks passed, it did not seem that she was in any way unhappy, and her manner was that of one content with one's situation.

He approached her one fine April morning, as she was sitting down to write he knew not what. When he entered the chamber, she hurriedly put the parchment away and turned to greet him warmly.

"Éowyn, I bear good news," he declared, feeling that she deserved the surprise after her efforts at forgetting the Steward and settling back down in Rohan.

"Being?" she prompted, demonstrating due interest.

"The time has come for us to return to Minas Tirith and escort Theoden's body back here," he explained. He awaited a reaction; did she not pine for the City of the Kings?

Her eyes did brighten with delight, though he was quite mistaken in presuming the cause of such enthusiasm.

"Oh! Truly? You do not speak in jest?"

"Not at all, dear sister. And I request your company on the journey."

"You need not; I do not believe you could be rid of me even if I were forbidden to join the escort." Éomer laughed, glad to recognize his sister's old wit in her teasing smile. He took his leave, as the day's duties awaited him. When he reached the door, he turned again to face his sister.

"You know, I am quite relieved you got over that foolish Steward fellow, otherwise I doubt I should feel inclined to take you within two leagues of that City. Now, make haste and ready your belongings, for we leave soon."


	3. Chapter 3

Éomer was seated diagionally across from Éowyn, at King Elessar's left side, while she herself had for neighbours Eothain and, ironically, Faramir. She glanced angrily at their host, suspecting he may have had some part in deciding the guests' seats - for though hearing the Steward's mere voice sent Éowyn's mind reeling, she could not allow herself the slightest display of interest in him. Indeed, for the entire feast, she had been obliged to keep a vigilant eye on Éomer, in case he happened to glance up at her and see the way her gaze continually drifted towards the man to her left. He did not; he conversed the entire evening alternately with King Elessar, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, and even, at times, with the Steward. That she would have to keep up her act until the cursed day when her brother would discover it made Éowyn grit her teeth in frustration. She now knew that she should have corrected his misgivings about her feelings towards Faramir as soon as he spoke them, but she was too far in to retreat. Éomer would already feel betrayed that she had lied to him.

"Sister! What say you to that?" His convivial tone brought her out of her gloomy contemplation, and she blinked as though woken from sleep.

"Pardon?"

"Our generous host proposed a hunt on the morrow, and suggested you might be of the party." All the surrounding faces were turned towards her expectantly, and she felt foolish taking a few moments to understand her brother's words.

"It is hunting season, after all," added Imrahil, as though she were some pampered city-born lady with no knowledge of the hunt.

Her pride ruffled, she gave a bright smile and answered, "Why, the King and Steward shall be at an advantage, for they have the skills and practice of Rangers! We shall all be put to shame. But I cannot decline such an invitation, thank you, my Lord." She nodded to Elessar in gratitude and turned to converse again with Eothain, though she could feel Faramir's eyes on her as she did so. Soon after, he excused himself from the banquet, explaining that he wished to retire for the night due to an early morning to follow.

When she herself left the feasting hall - she had quickly discovered that though sitting by him indifferently was frustrating, his absence made the banquet strikingly dull - a figure awaited her in the corridor. She smiled and took his arm gratefully.

"You ignored me all evening," said Faramir, repeating the words she had uttered several months before, as they instinctively made their way towards the gardens of the Houses of Healing, where they had spent many an evening in pleasant conversation.

"Again, my brother is to blame..." answered Éowyn, exasperation evident in her voice. They emerged into the open air, and she found that the steady wind which had buffeted the trees' leaves about during her last stay had been replaced by a gentle breeze. The weather was milder here than in Edoras, she thought to herself, admiring the moonlit lilies and lavender.

"Patience, my love. He will eventually let you go. Did you see? He actually addressed me this evening, and he was not even scowling as he did so." She laughed.

"It would have been very rude of him to ignore you all meal whilst you were sat opposite him."

"Ah, indeed. That is possibly his reason for conversing with me. But Éowyn, we have not properly spoken since your arrival; how are you?"

"Oh, I am fine. But we always speak in our letters! There is much that I have missed which cannot be done through words..." As she spoke, her arms wove their way around his neck and she pressed herself closer to him, an inviting smile playing across her lips.

His hands were just reaching the small of her back to draw her closer still, when hurried footsteps resonated across the floor before pausing suddenly. The entangled couple whirled to find a young girl watching them with an amused expression on her face.

"Lothíriel! What in Arda are you doing here?" asked Faramir, relieved at the recognising his cousin. He had feared the witness might have been a stranger who would spread rumours, or worse yet, Éomer.

"I believe I could ask you the very same question, if I had not already seen the answer for myself," said Lothíriel. One of her eyebrows was raised, but she wore a good-natured smile and her eyes twinkled with mirth.

"Well. Er." Faramir stepped away from a slightly puzzled Éowyn, smoothing his vest and hair. "Lothíriel, this is the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. My lady, may I introduce my cousin, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth. I, er, regret that you could not meet in better conditions." Éowyn embraced the girl in a friendly manner, though she was still a little befuddled, and also irritated her kiss with Faramir had been interrupted so soon.

"I have heard much about you, my lady," said Lothíriel, grinning and turning to the Steward. "But your introduction was unnecessary, Faramir. I recognised the Lady of Rohan instantly, she looks so very much like her brother."

"Lothíriel... That is hardly a compliment," said Faramir, uneasy. His cousin's straightforward manner often left a poor impression on acquaintances; but Éowyn merely laughed.

"Well, I do not mean to say you look like a man," explained Lothíriel quickly. "In fact, the features are handsome on the both of you."

"Why, thank you, Lady Lothíriel. I swear that is the first kind word I have recieved from a Gondorian, the Healers put aside," answered Éowyn.

"And what of me?" said Faramir, feigning distress.

"Oh, pff! Dear cousin, a lover's opinion can be counted upon to be biased. For Lady Éowyn, compliments from you cannot be trusted. Anyway," she added, "I have read your secret stash of poems! Talk about putting someone on a pedestal." She rolled her eyes, earning laughter from Éowyn.

"Good grief, Lothíriel! Allow a man some privacy, will you? I thought those poems were well hidden!" Faramir said, though his tone implied jest. But at that moment voices drifted through the open windows of a building above, reminding the three that they were not alone. "I shall take my leave of you, for it grows late, and we hunt tomorrow. Good night, Lothíriel, my Lady." He nodded in turn to the young women, then hesitated and furtively kissed Éowyn's brow, before striding off into the corridors of Minas Tirith.

Éowyn turned to bid Lothíriel farewell too when she noticed the diverted smile the other girl wore.

"What is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing at all. It is simply quite endearing to watch, the game you and he play. He loves you very much, you know."

"He has informed me of it, yes... However any degree of attachment will be useless if my brother does not consent to our betrothal."

"Oh, fear not, Lady Éowyn. I believe his mind may yet be changed. Good night!" And with no further explanation than a worryingly mischievous grin, Lothíriel followed her cousin into the buildings. Éowyn was left with nothing to do but inhale one last breath of fresh air and leave the Gardens as well.

That which had originally been a spark of interest was quickly approaching obsession. Try as he might, Éomer could not tear his eyes away from the Princess of Dol Amroth as she swung up onto her mare with the help of a Rider.

The hunting party were preparing to leave for Druadan, where it was said there was more than enough game. Éomer rode over to the front, behind King Elessar, making an effort to distract himself from Lothíriel and her enticing mannerisms. It peeved him to watch the other Riders pay attention to her and more so for her to happily receive it.

"Fine weather for riding, is it not?" said Elessar as Éomer joined him. He noticed that the Steward was not by his King; a glance over his shoulder attested that the man was to ride at the rear, though he knew not why.

"Indeed, as is the company," remarked Éomer, but before more could be exchanged trumpets sounded, announcing the beginning of the hunt; thought it was not quite a hunt as of yet, for they would have to ride to the forest first which would likely take a couple of hours.

Indeed, they only reached the boundary of foliage at noon, and it was decided that they should pause for nuncheon and eat upon the ground before entering Druadan forest. Determined to assert himself, Éomer sat beside Lothíriel before he could be invited elsewhere. She glanced up immediately and bit back a smile.

"My lord," she greeted, nodding politely.

"Lothíriel of Dol Amroth," he said, reaching for a bun of bread. "I have long wondered how you came upon my sword, the day I returned to Rohan. Would you care to enlighten me?"

"Oh. That."

"Because I cannot see what business a princess would have in a foreign lord's chamber, even if it led to the fortunate retrieval of his weapon." He could not suppress the grin which spread across his face as he cornered her in her own mischief.

"In all honesty, my lord, I wished to leave an impression on you. Which seems to have been accomplished, by the fact that you have chosen to address me again." She concluded her frank explanation with a smile.

"How would it help you to earn the attention of a King from abroad? Surely you ought to be spending your energy endearing yourself to your own lord Elessar, not myself."

"Bah! I cannot say what I wish to him. Anyway, I wanted to speak to you, to see if they were right."

"What about?"

"You being so very charming and handsome. Well, handsome, I had already figured that out–" Lothíriel clamped her hand over her mouth in horror at that which she had let slip, but Éomer grinned.

"And as for charming, what is your assessment, my lady?"

"I suppose so," she replied, recovering from her faux pas and displaying her usual would-be critical air. "How was Rohan upon your return?"

And so the pair fell into amiable discussion.

Éowyn was, to put matters mildly, angry. She rode at a slow pace with the group, her eyes boring into the back of her brother, who was still deep in conversation with Lady Lothíriel. During the entire meal, she had been forced to sit far away from Faramir, and engage in dull discourse with some airheaded Gondorian knight while Éomer paid less heed to her than on the eve.

It was not the lack of attention in itself which irked her so much as the possibility of it, and therefore the necessity of keeping away from the Steward. Their stolen kiss had awoken her desire more than quenched it, and she found herself daydreaming silently about the feel of his lips against hers, unconsciously lagging towards the back of the party.

Suddenly there was a shift in the atmosphere and King Elessar spurred his horse forward through the trees, quickly followed by the rest of the hunt. In the rapid commotion everyone's focus was directed towards accelerating after the King and none noticed a strong arm lift Éowyn off her ride and onto another.

Laughing gaily, she lay back against Faramir's chest as he swerved his stallion in another direction and rode away from the hunting party. After a short while he steadied the horse and dropped onto the ground, reaching to help Éowyn down. (He was aware that she did not require the aid, being likely more agile on horseback than he, but it was a convenient excuse to hold her.)

"You are mad," she whispered breathlessly, before drawing him into an ardent embrace.


	4. Chapter 4

"I say, Éomer, you seem very agitated at the moment! Is something the matter?"

Elessar's words drew the King of Rohan's attention away from the surrounding trees. He glanced at his host, and his steed, sensing his uneasiness, kicked the ground unhappily.

"It is only that I cannot seem to discern my sister among our party," replied he, biting back the 'nor your Steward' which was begging to roll off his tongue spitefully.

After a moment of searching through the mounted group himself, Aragorn turned to Éomer again, frowning in puzzlement.

"Nor can I. Is that not the mare she was riding?" He gestured towards a horse busily searching the undergrowth for food.

"I believe it is."

"This is odd indeed; but, now, where is Lord Faramir?"

Before his question could be answered, the wanted man himself appeared on foot through the foliage, leading his stallion with him. Upon the animal sat Éowyn, apparently safe and sound.

"Sister!" cried out Éomer, causing her to cast her gaze his way. She smiled warmly as Faramir led her towards the two Kings. His own said nothing, though his eyebrows were raised half in reprimand, half in amusement, while that of the Riddermark observed the scene without comprehending.

"Might one enquire as to what caused the Lady Éowyn's absence?" said Elessar, after establishing that Éomer was at a loss for words. His tone was formal and apparently innocent, though the manner in which he continued to eye his Steward belied his would-be ignorance.

"I fell," Éowyn replied smoothly.

"When the chase began, her mare became quite alarmed, and threw her off," explained Faramir with equal ease.

"That is not possible... She never falls from horse!" countered Éomer, disbelieving but not yet angry. His sister laughed.

"Brother, I am a woman, not an elf," she chuckled. "It does happen, even to those who ride the best."

"It is fortunate that Lord Faramir was present at the time, else we may have quite abandoned fair Éowyn," offered Elessar, trying to hide the grin which spread across his face. Indeed, it all seemed ludicrously familiar to him; not long ago he would have found himself in his Steward's position, hastily searching for plausible lies to tell Arwen's sceptical brothers. If he were to continue comparing his and Faramir's situations, he would have considered it terribly unfair that while he had one hot-tempered king to handle, he had had to contend with three elves, one of which had raised him within his own house. Compared to Arwen's family, Éomer was a piece of cake.

However, neither Éowyn nor Faramir had been wisened by such struggles with elvenkind, and though they had succeeded in telling their tale convincingly, they feared the King of Rohan would see through it. They ought not have worried so, however, for though his suspicions had returned to him, Éomer's thoughts were otherwise engaged, and more pleasantly so; he was wondering to himself how a certain princess' lips might taste, and how he might possibly confirm his theories.

The meal that evening was, albeit not as grand as the previous feasts of celebration, pleasant; the stag caught by the hunters proved delicious in a mushroom stew, and the ale poured freely. The night was young yet when men were already stumbling back to their chambers, supporting each other unsuccessfully or with a servant wench on their arm. After the exertion of riding all day long, a full goblet had been downed rapidly, and more drink demanded immediately, and in such conditions one only remained sober for so long.

Faramir watched the scene before him, mildly amused, swilling a cup of wine. He had been careful in drinking and was fairly confident of his sobriety, although such suppositions might not have been entirely accurate. Many of the smaller folk had departed, but those titled were still present. He observed Imrahil, his nose turned red with drink, laughing heartily with two of his sons over some joke best left unmentioned; there was Elessar, not inebriated as his guests were but merry all the same, conversing with Eothain and Erkenbrand, the Marshalls; the King of Rohan himself, by that alcove, flirting exceedingly with the princess of Dol Amroth, who after many goblets of wine giggled at his every word – and Éowyn, in all her jolly loveliness, dancing with a Guard of the Citadel without a care in the world.

Truly, he thought to himself, this evening had been a success; though likely the entire city would be suffering from pounding headaches on the morrow. This prediction, however, did not dissuade him from standing and walking over to the barrels in quest of more wine. He had not noticed the dance end, and a new one begin, but when he looked up from the tap she stood before him, in the highest spirits possible.

"I think you have had quite enough already, young man," she berated, trying not to giggle. He rolled his eyes.

"No, I think not," he replied, slipping his arm around her middle and holding her in a familiar manner which would, no doubt, have shocked Gondorian nobles at any other time of day. She glanced in her brother's direction worriedly.

"Oh, do not fret," said Faramir, taking a swig from his cup. "He's much too engrossed with my cousin to notice us." She laughed and kissed him on the cheek playfully, twisting out of his grip and taking his hand in hers.

"Even so, I can think of better places to indulge in... each other," she said, leading him out of the feasting hall. As they hurried through winding corridors and spiraling staircases, his impatience, and curiosity, rose.

"Éowyn, what..." he began, but at that moment she pushed a door open and they stepped into a place familiar to both - the stables.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked, his mind still clouded by the alcohol.

"Because no one comes here at night," she said, as though it were obvious, beginning to pull him closer. He smiled in realization at her intentions and allowed himself to be drawn against her, and soon they were lost in each other, tongues and fingertips venturing further than they had ever before dared to.

"But my father and brothers are nearby," contested Lothíriel, nodding in the direction of her family.

"Oh, hush. They have drunk far too much to notice you go," answered Éomer, his rueful smile challenging her to concede to his proposition.

"I am not certain... I should be running off who knows where with a foreign King... no matter how amiable he may be," she replied slowly, her eyes smiling back at him.

"To be fair," he countered, rising, "You shan't be running off, but galoping. It is a detail of fundamental importance."

She chuckled at his poor joke and, with a final flickering glance towards her father, stood with him and took his arm. They quickly exited the hall, striving to appear as though they and their behaviour were irreproachable; but once outside they burst into a fit of nerve-induced laughter.

"I cannot believe you persuaded me to do this," giggled Lothíriel, wiping a tear from her eye.

"I myself wonder at I succeeded."

"Those stars had better be breathtaking, else I might believe you led me out into the fields with other, less respectable motives."

"And if I had?"

"Then..." She took a moment to form a reply, in her tipsy state. "Then in that case, I fear very much for my honour for I do not believe I have it in me to resist."

"Now, now, my lady," admonished he, as they walked through the empty streets of the City towards the lower circles. "Whatever are you insinuating?"

"Hmm... I do not think I shall answer that."

"But I must know."

"You shan't."

"You're a very contrary sort of princess, aren't you?"

"Am I contrary to hid my thoughts from a strange foreigner?"

"Strange! Dear me, and there I thought I had charmed you..." He wrapped an arm around her inconspicuously and drew her to his chest, his hands playing with her hair as they neared the stables.

"Éomer," she giggled in protest, wriggling away from him. He tried to snatch her back, but she dodged again, dancing away from him with a laugh on her lips. They descended the last few steps in an odd sort of chase, Lothíriel always skipping out of his reach at the last moment, shrieking with exhilaration as his fingertips grazed her waist.

Finally, having reached the door she could flee no longer, but instead of gathering her up in his arms he burst into another fit of laughter, as did she, which was, though proof of high spirits, unfortunate, in that both were out of breath, which such hysterics did not cure. After a short while spent recovering, and Lothíriel lamenting that her belly hurt from laughing so much, they stood again. He put his arm around her again, though on this occasion she did not protest, and they were still chuckling as he swung the door open.

Éowyn's mind was fogged by drink and desire, but she nevertheless registered the sound of the door being pushed open, and a person - no, people - entering loudly. Her eyes flew open in panic and she pushed Faramir off her; not an easy task, for he appeared to not have noticed the newcomers and was loathe to be at all separated from her.

"Éowyn..." he murmured with a puzzled frown. She heard more footsteps, but they suddenly stopped.

"Éowyn?"

Even the Steward was pulled out of his daze now and both lovers glanced up to find the King of Rohan staring at them in utter shock.


	5. Chapter 5

Éowyn barely had time to gasp before her brother seized Faramir from her and pinned him against the wall, the muscles of his arm bulging in an angry effort not to apply more pressure and effectively suffocate the Steward, who was, to put matters mildly, surprised.

"Who do you think you are?" bellowed the King of Rohan, his free hand twitching at his side.

Éowyn turned hopefully to Lothíriel, but the poor girl appeared unable to do more than stare in horror at the scene before her.

"Éomer, let him down!" cried Éowyn, hurriedly attempting to rearrange her hair and gown as she approached the grappling pair.

"Keep yourself out of this, sister," was her brother's gruff reply.

For all Faramir's years as a Ranger, he had never engaged in a physical fight; unfortunately, his opponent had, many a time. His steady strength was no match for the other man's adrenalin-fused power, in this situation. He struggled to wrench Éomer's arm from his throat, but only succeeded in being lifted several inches from the ground.

"I shall certainly not 'keep myself out of it'," hissed Éowyn, in a menacing tone which caused both men to involuntarily flinch. "Unhand my lover, Éomer."

"Lover?" He spat on the ground. "He treats you like some common whore and you'll call him your lover?"

He soon regretted his rash words, for a saddle was immediately hurled at him, and for all his breadth knocked him to the ground.

"Insufferable swine!"

Lothíriel hovered in the corner uncertainly, torn between rushing to her cousin or to the handsome king. And then, there was the matter of Éowyn, who had morphed into a strange sort of whirlwind tempest within moments. Coming within throwing range of her would doubtlessly be unwise.

The king sat up gruffly, and wiping the blood from his lip where the saddle had hit him, stood – unsteadily, and apparently abandoning any plans of physically assaulting Faramir.

"How dare you?" yelled Éowyn, reaching for another saddle.

"Calm yourself, sister–"

"Calm myself? You're one to talk, _sire_! The only reason you're calm is because I hit you on the head!"

"You don't understand! He's using you!" This time, he ducked before he and the saddle could collide.

"You know nothing! The only reason we have to be so bloody secretive about everything is that you're such an upright little pig!"

"So that episode of falling from your mare was fabricated?" The bitterness in his tone was palpable.

"Obviously."

"I should have known," he laughed frostily.

"Oh, yes, your sister the whore, as you so delicately put it. I wouldn't have to act like it if you weren't such a damned bastard!"

"That's it. The escort will leave tomorrow; and do not expect to return." Éomer turned to leave, steadied for another saddle aimed at his head; but instead of the whooshing and clinking of a projectile, there was silence.

"I should have died with Uncle," said Éowyn quietly, her shoulders hunching dejectedly.

"Don't be a fool," said Éomer, turning back towards her.

"But it is true. I would have saved everyone a lot of pain."

"That's ridiculous. You caused enough pain as it was when your survival was uncertain." The irritation in his voice concealed the terror which suddenly clutched his heart.

"I'm sorry," she said, whispering now. Glancing at Éomer to confirm his personal survival, Faramir moved towards Éowyn, and clasping her shoulders firmly, with his head bowed to level with hers, forced her to meet his searching eyes. "You committed no crime," he said. "Do not apologize."

The 'take your hands off my sister' had nearly slipped out of Éomer's mouth automatically when he noticed that she was smiling at the Steward, gratefulness bringing tears to her eyes. He almost choked with realization.

_This man was better for her than he was._

Feeling the urge to cry and laugh simultaneously, he turned to leave, and thereupon saw that Lothíriel still stood where he had left her, visibly shaken but her gaze understanding.

"Oh, Bema," he muttered, feeling the weight of guilt heavy upon his conscience. He offered his arm to her and she took it, and they walked back up to the Citadel in a shocked sort of comfortable silence.

It had been an insane night, and was blamed by all on the drink. Emotions had been raw and foolish and half-ripe, and rash words had been uttered. The consequences for some could very well be disastrous. But for the time being, the only thing Éowyn of Rohan could concentrate on was nursing her pounding headache and unstable stomach.

"Would you like some more syrup, milady?" asked a chambermaid timidly, probably unaccustomed to dealing with a hungover lady.

"Yes," came the indistinct groan of a reply, from Éowyn's general direction. It was impossible to tell where exactly she was, for upon reuniting with daylight she had hastily retreated to the darkness of her bedclothes, with a string of words in Rohirric which would have made the chambermaid blush had she understood, and which even now she was repeating over and over in her head.

Only brief snippets of the eve remained in her memory, and she could not tell how she had made it to her bedchamber. She remembered something – something very much delectable, at that – involving Faramir, and something less delectable by a fair margin to do with Éomer, but as to the details, she hadn't the slightest recollection. The only clear thing she could recall was gently falling asleep in Faramir's arms, but that had not been here in her chambers... However beginning to consider these thoughts was only worsening her headache, and she promptly banished them from her mind.

When she had managed to start acting like a normal human being, having dressed and washed her face and been pulled away from her bed several times by the dutiful chambermaid, a knock came at the door. Not finding the concept of company a pleasant one, she hesitated before rising and walking towards the doorway, all the while cursing herself for having dismissed the maid only minutes before.

"My lady," said Éothain, bowing as she swung the door open.

"Éothain! Oh, _good_. I thought I might have some awkward Gondorian counsellor on my hands for the morning, and with this awful headache, I do not think I could have managed. Come in, please."

"So you are also suffering the consequences of last night?" asked Éothain, smiling grimly and taking a seat by the extinguished fireplace.

"Painfully so." She dropped into the chair opposite him with exhausted inelegance and an unladylike 'oof'.

"I can't remember the last time I was so drunk."

"I can. The feast in Éomer's honour when he became a Marshall?"

"That was aeons ago," laughed Éowyn.

"All the more worrying – you were this titchy little girl joining in with the stupid young fellows, and we were so wrecked we didn't notice you were the worst of us! Éomer nearly killed us the next day when he realized."

"Bema, I _was_ adventurous," she giggled, remembering with hilarity the infamous night in question. She had been so sick she had cringed at the sight of ale for weeks afterwards; but it had not been too difficult, because her brother had been very careful to have all alcoholic beverages steered well away from her while Théodred laughed merrily at the spectacle. She felt a tinge of grief at the unexpected memory of her late cousin, but it soon subsided as Éothain endeavoured to list the humorous events of the feast.

"But, Éowyn, I was sent here by your brother, you know," he said, after an entertaining while spent reminiscing over their misspent youths on horseback and in taverns, his smile a little less natural than before.

"Yes? What did he want?"

"He, er... He wanted me to tell you that the funeral escort is leaving today."

"Today?"

"Yes. As soon as possible after nuncheon."

"But – why? I thought we were due to go in a week's time."

"We were, but he came to me this morning – and believe you me, I was not happy at being woken so early – and he said we needed to leave today, something about the weather being too hot soon, I don't know. Either way, his word is law, so that's that and I think I shall miss the pretty Gondorian lasses."

"Well, then, take one home." Éowyn stood and walked over to her chest of drawers, beginning to remove her belongings and place them in the bags they had been brought in; but though he could not see for himself whether her smile had vanished or not, Éothain could discern the distress in her voice.

"Éowyn..."

"You ought to go and pack your own things, Éothain."

"Listen, I'm sorry about you and the Steward, I am. But Éomer is a good man, and if you do love whatshisface then he will eventually realize it."

"It's Faramir."

"What?"

"His name. It's Faramir."

"Oh. Right. Well, I am busy – you may have bags to pack but I have the Rohirrim to awaken! – but if you need to talk to someone, I will be there. And, er, also, a word of advice: during the ride to Edoras, don't talk to Farahil."

"Faramir, Éothain." She could not suppress the giggle which escaped from her lips.

"They're all the same!" cried Éothain from the corridor as he strode away from her chambers, and despite her unhappiness she smiled. If she had stayed in Gondor, she would have dearly missed her friends, few as they may be; at least this small comfort could console her.

Éomer watched, from his seat at the head of the long table where his guests ate, as they conversed between themselves, some obviously in deep mourning of Théoden, others making merry despite the mood. Although he himself had been grieved to speak again of his deceased uncle and predecessor, and he disliked the words he would soon have to utter, he felt within him a warm sort of finality. At last, no matter what he had expected, this burden would be off his shoulders; and he was experiencing that sudden confidence of doing the right thing. He perceived Éowyn, miserably sipping from her goblet and looking as raw as she had during Théoden's burial... Knowing he might bring some solace to her in her hour of grief comforted him greatly. And as he had mulled over his decision all the way to Rohan, he had begun to grow fond of it, and even appreciate it; and it was with a broad smile that he stood and addressed his guests again.

"Now this is the funeral feast of Théoden the King; but I will speak ere we go of tidings of joy, for he would not grudge that I should do so, since he was ever a father to Éowyn my sister."

At the sound of her name, she glanced up, confusion now replacing the sorrow in her expression. He could not bring himself to meet her gaze, for fear he might suddenly default on the promise he had silently made her; but he could feel her curiosity boring into him.

"Hear then all my guests, fair folk of many realms, such as we have never before gathered in this hall! Faramir, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien, asks that Éowyn Lady of Rohan should be his wife, and she grants it full willing. Therefore they shall be trothplighted before you all!"

The named pair stood, open mouths soon vanishing to leave disbelieving but ecstatic smiles in their stead, and as tradition had it they clasped hands before the cheering guests; to whose further mirth Éowyn threw her arms around her Steward without warning and kissed him passionately.

And as Éomer met the gaze of a certain young princess seated towards the far end of the table, past the wolf-whistling and clapping, he realized that this marriage he had been so opposed to was not such a foul thing after all.

* * *

**Well, that's it! I suppose the ending's slightly awkward but I can leave the details to your imagination, 'cause I really wanted to finish it off from Eomer's POV. Anywho, thanks for putting up with five whole chapters of absolute amateurishness (that _is_ a word) and I hope you enjoyed it! And thanks also for all the feedback which really motivated me to continue.**


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